SHAZAM!: The Word of Power #15

"Billy, check it out," Freddy points to an empty table in the cafeteria, "No drama club."

"A lot of freshmen didn't show up," he bites into his cold cinnamon roll with a loud crunch.

"Maybe they set up a freshman ditch day?"

"Don't care, either way."

"You okay, man?"

"Astonishing."

"I haven't seen any reports of Captain Marvel-"

"Don't call him that."

"Colonel Zappy."

"No."

"Power Guy?"

"Stop.

"Voltage!"

"Seriously."

"Reginald."

"What did I say?"

"Super Shock?"

"Shut up!"

"Corporal Lightning!"

Billy snatches his blue bag, drops his food in the trash, and storms off.

"We'll figure something out!" Freddy finishes his soggy french toast sticks.

Billy is leaving the parking lot and preparing to jaywalk to his shortcut home when he hears a warm sound.

The playful plucking of a jolly banjo and a smooth hum draw his eye to a run-down old van. It's red with a white dragon painted on it, wrapping around the frame. The sliding door is open wide and there sits a man with a red ball cap, a cigarette, and a pristine banjo.

Billy isn't Shazam. He wants to do something bad.

"Mister, can I get a smoke?"

The melody doesn't skip a beat, "How old are you, kid?"

"Old enough."

"Heh! A load of horse $#!&," he plucks a short riff with one hand and tosses a pack of Red Apples with the other, "Need a light?"

"Sure," it flies at him quickly, and he takes a long drag. Followed immediately by a dozen coughs. Very rarely does he regret a choice instantly.

"You make a habit of breaking rules?" His calloused fingers dance between chords.

"As much as anyone."

"That'll get you places you don't want, trust me I've been there."

"Jail?"

"Prison. Gangs. Living out the back of a van."

"You don't look homeless."

"Just cause a man lacks residency doesn't mean he can't be hygienic. It just takes some doin'."

"That why you're parked outside a school?" Doesn't look the type.

"Nah, that's because of the dozens of free parking spots at night. Waiting for em to wrap up in there so I can get some sleep. Get towed if I do it here."

"What's your name?"

"Banjo. You?"

"Bill. I'm gonna head out, been good talking with you."

"You ever feel alone?"

Weird question. Red flag.

His foot scratches its twin’s heel and his gaze drops, "Everyone does."

"Not lonely. Truly alone. Powerless. Forgotten. I'm a vet, some of us feel that quite often."

He has a cozy bed waiting at home, "Yeah, I guess."

"I know some kids you'd like. Troublemakers, rule breakers. Comradery is important at your age."

"I'm good, I don't need friends," not a conversation worth continuing.

"But family?"

Billy freezes. Family? He's has dozens. But, true family? He hasn't seen that yet.

"You're not talking about a gang are you?"

"No, not a gang. It's more of a club. One full to bursting with like-minded individuals."

"This club got a name?"

"A. S. P."

"Don't be coy."

"American Socialist Party."

"Ugh, a political thing? I got a few years before I have to care, see ya," he turns to leave when the music stops.

Wood splinters against his ear with a final thunderous note. Before he can notice he's been struck with a banjo, let alone landed on the ground, a large boot lands on his face.

"We tried it the easy way, didn't we?"

This guy looks small a second ago, but he wasn't joking about being ex-military. His boots are akin to baseball bats. Stomps rain, and there's a splash of blood.

Billy can feel his skin tearing, his abused flesh expanding, his teeth loosening, his eye closing, and finally his jaw dislocating.

In a matter of moments, he's been reduced to a puddle of bloody lumps.

Why? He just wanted a rebellious cigarette. He just didn't want to join a political party. So, why?

Banjo slams his steel toe into the child's ribs.

"Shhaaa-"

"Sha-sha-shut the @#$% up!"

"Zaa-"

He snatches Billy from the ground and throws him into the van.